


witch takes crown

by fitzefitcher



Series: one bright moment [3]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, Warcraft III, World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Death Knights, Alternate Universe of an Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Dissociation, Lich Queen Jaina Proudmoore, Love Confessions, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Mutual Pining, Pining, Resolved Romantic Tension, Thrall dissociates during battle p much and has a real bad time, Unresolved Romantic Tension, listen writing this was agony and death will not bring relief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-28 17:57:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12612192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fitzefitcher/pseuds/fitzefitcher
Summary: Jaina, witch queen, sword in her hands, bears the weight of her crown.





	witch takes crown

**Author's Note:**

> a tumblr writing prompt from asa, who is supposedly my friend but also enjoys my suffering, themed around the sentence "please don't do this."  
> anyway! alternate ending to "leave your bones," wherein jaina says fuck it and takes the mantle of lich king anyways  
> I'm ready for death

The crown falls when he falls, and rolls away with a clatter.

He reaches as he falls, an act of futility, and the body dies before it hits the ground. When Jaina pulls the sword from her ribs, it comes free much easier than expected, and there's a sort of shift in her she can't quite recognize. It does not stray from her grip, and she feels lighter, somehow, dreamy, and wind and lightning continue to flood from her wound. She bids it close, and ice folds over it before she can finish the thought. Ner'zhul greets her as he slips easily into her skull, tired and fond, and she's not sure if he's pulling himself in or she's pulling him in. Either way, he cannot hope to dominate her will like this. They both know it.

Sword in her hands, frost in her ribs, she regards the crown at her feet.

Arthas' body lay broken before her, not much left of him but a fast-rotting skeleton, acid and poison ravenously consuming long-dead flesh. Disgraced, powerless, crown just out of reach. Crown at her feet, ripe for the taking.

"Jaina," Garrosh says, close behind her. The paladins have already rushed forward to aid Sylvanas and Tirion. They pay her no heed as Frostmourne becomes a familiar, comfortable weight in her hands, its rage sated, the font of souls soothed by her touch. She turns to look at her would-be knight. He wears viscera like war paint, anointed with the blood of his enemies. There is a smoldering hunger in his reddened gaze, staring at her expectantly. Behind him, his newfound wards watch curiously, eyes drifting between her and the crown. Without direction, they seem anxious. The soul-weave glitters in her fist, and the first threads of confusion and fear begin to slide through her head. They are reaching out, scared.

_Surely,_ Ner’zhul says, drifting from the back of her consciousness, _surely you will not leave them like this?_

Jaina does not reply.

Gently, as though she were handling her own child, she kneels down and lays the sword at her feet. Gold and white flicker behind her eyelids, Garrosh’s steel-fisted grip on their conjoined chords is comforting. His gaze lowers to the threads woven around the blade. Can he see them now, she wonders.

"Will you stand with me?" she asks him, instead. He nods. He tightens his grip on the chords. It feels like "yes" and "always."

Jaina, frost witch, witch queen, sword at her feet and lightning behind her teeth, takes the crown. Places it upon her own head. She takes the sword in hand again, weaving the font of souls in its entirety onto herself with barely a thought. _I am here,_ she says, soothing. _I am here._

Jaina, witch queen, sword in her hands, bears the weight of her crown.

_Is this what you had meant to happen?_ She asks Ner’zhul, horror dawning on the faces of living around her. The dead are tired, relieved; accepting their new sovereign without protest. Truly, even the banshee queen seems oddly placid, even for just a moment. She doubts it will last long.

Ner’zhul does not reply.

\---

Jaina wears the crown.

Thrall knows this before he’s climbed the stairway, before he’s even left the room; the shift in power is palpable, as though lightning had struck the citadel and electricity still flooded the air. It might as well have, seemingly everyone in the room staring at the narrow doorway leading to it, counting breaths between the strike and the roll of thunder to follow. It hasn’t followed yet, hanging above them expectantly, his hair standing on end.

A soft tapping echoes from the stairwell, and the room goes completely silent as it grows louder and louder before the door finally creaks open, slowly, gently. It’s one of the stray knights, he thinks, recognizing their red hair and gangly frame from before, when Garrosh and Dranosh had cut down those who would not follow them. This one did.

Bowing deeply, they say, “The queen will see you now.”

\---

Thrall is the first up the stairs, by virtue of him sprinting to the door the fastest. Varian is hot on his heels, eyes dark and fervent, and he imagines he doesn’t look too much different, himself. Darion attempts to become the lead, but never quite makes his way to the front, Thrall and Varian climbing the steps in leaps and bounds, reckless and desperate. Nearly half of the army comes, Muradin and Dranosh and Lana’thel close behind, all racing up the stairs, ready for a fight.

He reaches the top shortly before the High King does, and there she stands, Frostmourne in hand, the black crown upon her head. Lightning crackles unseen around them, and power radiates from her pale form, a strange sort of pull he cannot define. Her court stands around her, tranquil, protected, and quite comfortable in the pressure of her presence that just feels jarring to him. She feels closer to an elemental than anything else, now, no longer human, neither alive or dead or undead, something outside of the cycle, something a little too close to the old ones whispering up from the deep. The creature that he beholds is a dark and benevolent god, a monster unlike any other, and still his heart beats rapid-fire in his chest for her as it always has. Still his heart beats for her and the beast that stands behind her, a pillar of strength and divinity in his own right.

“Jaina,” he starts, her name falling from his lips like a prayer, unable to stop himself. “Don’t do this. Please.” His desperation is so very apparent, and he cannot bring himself to feel shame, even as it clings to the edges of his awareness, more eyes on him than he would like. His blood is too loud and hot in his veins, eyes watery and half blind with it, but still he cannot stop himself, dread driving him forward. He is being choked by his own body, trapped and tethered, but none of this matters until she tells him something, anything. She blinks at him, an oddly human gesture.

“It has already been done,” she tells him plainly. She tells him this like he doesn’t know, like he doesn’t understand. But he does. He does, and it’s killing him. Too many eyes on him, fearful. Pitying.

“Jaina,” he starts again, still choking. “Please. _Why?”_

The Witch Queen steps forward, her knight close behind, and the universe itself parts for her passing, reshaping and rearranging itself to make room for the presence behind every step.

“I do this because it is necessary,” she tells him. She extends her hand towards his. Hesitates. “I do this because it is needed.” There’s no outward change in expression- not much expression at all- but she seems to steel herself, somehow, and takes his hand, her own shaking. It freezes him to the core, so cold that it burns even through his gauntlet, and he can only bear it for a scarce few seconds before she takes it back, swallowing, still shaking. Garrosh reaches forward, taking it instead and warming him instantly, and this is worse an insult than her burning him could have ever been.

“I do this because no one else can,” she finishes.

He can say no more to her, words gutted from him, gasping for air. Garrosh releases his hand, and takes Jaina’s instead, leading her down the steps. The army parts, somehow, and mist follows her like a veil. Part of him leaves with her, and his head feels numb.

Thunder rumbles in the distance, the storm they have woven together growing unbidden.

\---

Jaina, as always, is benevolent.

After speaking with Darion, she sees to Tirion and Sylvanas’ injuries, making sure they have everything they need to mend. She cuts the chains from Bolvar Fordragon, and cools the dragon-fire still licking at his wounds. She bids her knight to aid the healers, much to their chagrin when he pieces their injured back together himself, with blood and dark and the fallen enemy. Tirion looks startled at the sensation, mostly, the breath knocked out of his lungs while Darion watched on, resigned and helpless as Garrosh bullied his way to Tirion’s side. Naturally, the paladins aren’t too pleased with this, but they don’t argue the results, Garrosh helping their elder to his feet far quicker than they would have. Sylvanas doesn’t take it in stride quite as well as Tirion does, grumbling when Garrosh kneels next to her and takes her hands in his. Thrall can pick out the exact moment her dead heart starts beating again, however briefly, when Sylvanas gasps and jerks suddenly, her body abruptly radiating the warmth of life for the first time in years as Garrosh forces her stilled blood to flow once more. She looks at Garrosh with disbelief as whatever wounds she gained stitch themselves up and fade away.

 With Jaina’s every step down from the throne, the citadel changes under her feet, ice cracking and reshaping the stairs to become more secure; wider, safer, and shaped as though a master architect had planned it, rather than it being roughly hewn from centuries-old glaciers at the hands of ghouls. Neither Arthas nor Ner’zhul cared too much if one of their kin fell to their death; it wasn’t anything they couldn’t fix. But Jaina- Jaina goes out of her way to prevent the injury in the first place.

It is and isn’t expected, her nature always kind but not necessarily gentle. She will always look out for the wellbeing of others before herself, and will always do what it takes to achieve those ends. Even if the means are unexpected, or unadvised. It’s the reason she even began to trust him in the first place, he thinks, grimly humored. If the only way to survive is to ally with your worst enemy and to try and see past their faults, then you better be ready to do it. And Jaina- Jaina was more than ready.

It pains him, far more than he’d like to admit, to see her and Garrosh interact so easily with each other. He knows he’s being unfair, that this whole thing is unfair, but their connection to each other is physically palpable to him, and it _hurts,_ it feels as though in their being bound together that his tie to both had been cut. He knows he’s being unfair. He knows he is. But despair and envy slice through him so, so easily, and if he’d just convinced her to stay, if he’d just convinced her not to chase down her death in the citadel, then none of this would have happened. He could have stopped this, could have stopped their deaths from happening in the first place, but didn’t. He didn’t have the strength to make this happen, didn’t have the will, and whatever hurt he feels is his own damn fault.

If he’d just have fucking _told_ her, if he’d just fucking spit it out instead of hesitating, cowering at the last moment like he always fucking does, then none of this would have happened. It’s his fault. He knows it is. This- all of this- is his fault.

\---

The Witch Queen speaks to each of them in turn, and the message is mostly the same: she is not to be feared. The Citadel will now be home for any and all wayward undead, and while she welcomes any that wish to stay, she will not make them. To the undead, she takes hold of the helm’s power just long enough to send a message to each of them directly, power rippling across land and sea: come home. To any remaining scourge loyal to Arthas or Ner’zhul or the old ways: do not harm any living creature ever again, or you will be punished. It seems to affect even those that have broken the Lich King’s shackles, Sylvanas and Darion struck down to their core. Sylvanas turns her down as kindly as she can, wary, and Jaina understands. Darion looks sorely tempted, the promise of safety and home a siren’s song in his ears, but Tirion manages to hold him off from giving an answer just yet. With that sorted out, she asks them to leave the citadel. There is much to be done for the new monarch, and far too little time to do it.

Sylvanas need not be told twice; she takes herself, Lana’thel, and the rest of their kin back to the Undercity. She’s quick to leave, wary of one who can still speak to her directly as Arthas could, even if Jaina meant no harm by it. Varian is a more complicated affair, needing some convincing not to drag Bolvar and Jaina back to Stormwind with him and to hell with the consequences, and even then, still has to be dragged to his ship when the time comes to go home. In the end, through sheer dogged persistence, he still manages to take Bolvar and Muradin home with him, as well as any fallen Alliance that wished to join them.

Thrall stays no longer than he’s required to, leaving the moment he’s able, and their goodbye is stilted and awkward, him painfully aware of the growing wedge between them for every second of it. The warmth and affection of their previous friendship is deeply missed, and he goes back to Orgrimmar anxious and frustrated with all three of them. It’s selfish of him, he knows, to want this, when she has been through so much, and unfair of him to ask for it, when he is not the one who has been at her side, helping her through it.

His friendship with Garrosh had never been particularly warm, he knows, the two of them constantly bickering, but he’d thought it meant _something_ to Garrosh- enough for him to come home with him, at least. It wasn’t even enough to come home with the Saurfangs, apparently. They’re about as surprised as he is, at this; which is to say, not very much at all, but hoping against it, just the same. Varok hides his hurt well, and Dranosh barely hides it at all. Still, they have each other, which is a lot more than what could be said about before.

Dranosh and Garrosh’s wards divide themselves between the two of them, torn between their love for the Horde and their love for their queen. She bears them no ill will, whichever they choose, and Thrall suspects that there may be a lot of travelling back and forth between Durotar and Icecrown for quite a few of them. Those that linger, Horde and Alliance both, resume their place at their queen’s side as her Witch Knights.

From what he understands, the Ashen Verdict are ushered out in relatively short order; they are given back their fallen, and the cultists are returned to their queen, despite everyone’s wariness. She gives them her word that they will never raise even a finger against anyone ever again, and he really, truly wishes that he could believe her. So does everyone else, he can only assume. After that, there is hardly any word from Northrend at all, the monarch and her brethren holing up in the citadel and shutting the gates tight. But there has to be some way in, he thinks, they can’t be closed up completely, because the undead on the main continents start trickling up north, and he doubts she’s turning these pilgrims away.

He tries not to think about it anymore than he has to. Upon returning home, he proceeds to deal with this grief the way that he usually does: he puts it aside. He throws himself into his work. He tries not to spare even a single thought for them, for all the good that does.

She appears in his dreams. This is by no means her first time there, not by a long shot. But her presence has changed, going from one of hope and joy, perhaps even love, if he were to be that honest with himself (he can’t be anymore, not now), to resigned despair and bittersweet nostalgia. Sometimes, in his dreams, her hair is still gold, her skin still rosy with the breath of life. These ones, he finds, hurt the most, the promise of what could have been, what _should_ have been, ripped from him on waking. He’s being selfish. He knows he is; it’s not fair to either of them, and sometimes he wishes he could just stop, turn those feelings off all at once and just save himself the trouble, but it’s been such a long time, years even, that he’s been dealing with this. This wouldn’t be the first or the last time he’s tried to rid himself of this unsuccessfully.

Usually, however, her hair is white, and her skin is, too, all the warmth drained from her visage. In dreams where she is gold of hair, they’re memories, usually, but altered slightly, the lens rosier, the edges softer. In dreams where her hair is white, there seems to be too sharp a focus, too distinct an image for what a dream should be. Her eyes, the bluest he’s ever seem them, bore holes into him, and this is the only thing that remains consistent with any of her appearances in his dreams. She talks, sometimes, but he never hears. He ignores them, hopes that in burying them down, he’ll forget them. And it works, mostly.

He didn’t really dream too much of Garrosh prior to this- there wasn’t really a need, he supposed, with him being pretty close by for the most part. Jaina it seemed was always far away and unobtainable, and Garrosh seems to have joined in on that, taking his place by her side. So it would make sense that this would continue to hold true even in his dreams, he supposes. And true to form, just as his softer memories of Jaina drift back to the surface, so do the ones of Garrosh, as if for the sole purpose of punishing himself further.

Garrosh just glares at him, usually, hardly ever saying a word, though this wasn’t exactly strange even when he was alive. However, the smolder behind it and the heat it leaves with him even as he wakes- that’s new, and worrying. Granted, it’s still not that much different from when he was alive, very easily able to get under Thrall’s skin in all sorts of ways, but with this, there’s a very distinct hunger, and it’s directed towards him. The weight of it haunts him long after he wakes.

There’s a strange sort of envy that accompanies the ones where they appear together; it’s obvious, the reason he envies Garrosh, longing for the place at her side that was never his to begin with, but for some reason, he longs for Jaina’s place, too. Not for her crown, clearly, it’s not even a thought in his head, but for her place at Garrosh’s side. He wants both; he can’t even fathom why.

But that’s all he sees of them for months; Jaina, golden-haired, behind a bookshelf in a library at Dalaran, catching precious few words with her after the summit. Garrosh, golden-eyed, waiting to greet him at the dock as his zeppelin pulls into the keep. His heart flutters at both, Jaina’s shy mischief as she tugs him between the shelves and grins at him conspiratorially, ready to spirit him away at a moment’s notice, and Garrosh’s impatience as he tugs him off the ship after giving it barely enough time to steady and into the warmth of the furnace, away from the slicing winds.

Jaina, hair white as snow, caught between his hands, looking bleakly up at him with his thumbs between her teeth. Horrifyingly, she makes no move to stop him, accepting her presumed end at his hands as respite. Sylvanas pours the poison and it’s the hottest thing that’s ever touched him, twinging as acid splashes onto his fingers, and he watches her eyes go blank and dim before slowly closing. Garrosh, eyes searing red, howling at them as he stalks down Jaina and ignores everything else. He moves like an animal, he moves like a predator, and power and heat radiate from his body and fill the whole room. He has become so feral that no chains will hold him for long, and even his fall is merely temporary, up on his feet and back to circling the room like a caged wolf.

Jaina stares at him. Garrosh stares at him. Blue and red cut right through him, pinning him down beneath it, despair and hunger untamed, unbidden. Jaina says, she silently mouths, “I’m sorry,” and Garrosh growls at him irritatedly. Jaina says, “I miss you,” and Garrosh says nothing. Thrall doesn’t hear them.

He wakes up. Pushes it out of his mind, shaking and numb. Remembers nothing, after a while.

He doesn’t want to.

\---

It isn’t until the coming spring that the Witch Queen makes an appearance outside her domain.

The undead pilgrims are more or less a common sight at this point, traveling in little caravans through any town that will let them. Horde settlements, unsurprisingly, give them less trouble than Alliance do, already used to their own undead and at least relatively familiar with their needs. Nevertheless, the Alliance are warming up to their fallen and others, slowly but surely, cautiously extending a hand to help if only to send them on their way. However, along with these pilgrims comes the appearance of their more hostile kin; leftover scourge who saw the queen’s ascension to the throne as betrayal. Those that felt they had not been given their due, and still-living cultists over whom she had no control.

Apparently, they saw fit to start creeping out of their hideaways scattered throughout Lordaeron and setting up shop closer to civilization than she thought was strictly necessary. No one else was even aware of this happening, until she had been discovered standing near the remains of a fledgling necromancer camp on the northern shore of Lordamere Lake. A storm had suddenly whipped up out of nowhere, lightning striking the same area repeatedly, and had died down just as quickly. Magic had radiated from the area so strongly that it could be felt even from Undercity, and scouts were sent to investigate. The growing camp had been tucked just beyond the tree line, evidently, and they had been planning on moving closer to Forsaken settlements. Now, it wasn’t much more than sodden, half-burnt tents crumpled in on themselves, and scorched bodies lying all around.

“They had been using advanced wards so that they wouldn’t be detected,” she had explained to the dark ranger that had discovered her to begin with. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to intrude; I just wanted to give them a little reminder of what will happen if they step out of line.”

This, of course, seems only to incite them further, and soon after, Sylvanas’ scouts find close to a dozen more camps hidden throughout her territory, their wards torn from them by the Witch Queen. She shows Sylvanas’ rangers and scouts, as well as Sylvanas herself, how to find them and destroy them, but this really only serves to show how close they had managed to get undetected, and how many that could be lying in wait. Sylvanas, in no uncertain terms, requests that he send Undercity aid, to make up for the troops she had lost during the campaign in Northrend. Taking in the San’layn had bolstered the population a great deal, but there was only so much she could do to recover what was lost before dipping into less-than-savory methods.

She does add, in somewhat uncertain terms, that having this happen was sort of eye-opening, and that, from what he could tell from her circuitous wording, she was a little wary, probably even frightened, of the power displayed so casually, almost flippantly, before her. Jaina- the Witch Queen probably didn’t mean to scare or intimidate, but that’s precisely what she’s done, all the same. For all intents and purposes, the only real difference they’ve seen thus far between her and the Lich King is name. So naturally, Sylvanas is more than a little worried, even if she doesn’t say it directly. She doesn’t really need to; it’s bad enough that the connection she thought severed between her and the Lich King could be brought back that easily. And with the Witch Queen coming and going as she pleases with no one the wiser, it’s not really a comforting thought.

So, Thrall sends over forces to help, and Thrall sends himself.

She isn’t quite expecting this much- Blightcaller looks momentarily stunned when he steps out of the zeppelin tower with the rest of his troops. He rights himself quickly, grumbling, and guides him to the throne room. If Sylvanas is shocked, she hides it well, eyeing him warily as he approaches and bows his head in respect. She does the same, even if she is questioning why he’s here.

They get him and his troops set up outside to sleep; Undercity was limited in what space it could give, and didn’t mind so much having new guard dogs for the outside entrance. His people don’t mind so much, either; there was only so much they could stand of the smell, and the light of the stars rather than the brick and mortar of the catacombs is comforting.

When Thrall sleeps, he doesn’t dream.

\---

Vol’jin had side-eyed him without any attempt at being subtle about it the night before he left. He’s used to filling in for him when he has to leave for a time, but he rarely ever gave him trouble for it, usually.

“What are you doing, Warchief,” he had asked flatly, like he already knew the answer.

“Preparing to aid Sylvanas?” Thrall had replied, blinking at him.

“Alright,” he said. “Why you sending yourself?” Thrall turns and looks at him, stopping mid-packing.

“Because she asked,” he replied, obviously.

“No, she didn’t,” Vol’jin said. “Not for you.”

“She asked for aid, and I’m giving it to her,” he replied stubbornly, irritated. “She needs all the help she can get.”

“True,” Vol’jin allows. “But that’s not why you’re going. Why are you going?” Thrall had stuttered, gaped at him for a moment before recovering, put on the spot suddenly.

“Because she asked for help,” he replied, mulish now. “Why else would I be doing this?” Vol’jin raised his eyebrows at him. _Why, indeed,_ he didn’t say. Thrall huffed at him and continued packing.

“Take care of yourself,” he said after a moment, like he expected him not to.

Thrall didn’t reply.

\---

It is much easier than he expects to return to battle.

Not the probability of it, no; skirmishes seem inevitable now that the curtain has been pulled away from the hiding scourge, skittering away from the light like cockroaches. He and his forces are very quickly directed to Tirisfal’s border with the western Plaguelands, and they set themselves up to fill in the gaps Sylvanas couldn’t cover before. Both she and the Argent Dawn, now the Ashen Verdict, lack the presence here that they once had, obviously still recovering from Northrend. Orgrimmar wasn’t doing too much better with that, in all honesty, but they’re still doing a hell of a lot better than the Forsaken are, and they don’t actively have someone right at their doorstep trying to make things worse.

No, what’s unexpected is Thrall throwing himself into it completely. Normally, he at least has some hesitance before managing to get into the swing of things; it is not his first instinct to hurt or attack, regardless of his target. But this- he loses himself. This is the first real combat he’s seen since the citadel, and he loses himself to it, detached from his body as he smashes through ghouls like rotten fruit. The hammer becomes indistinguishable from himself, fist white-knuckled around the handle, pulse throbbing hard enough that he almost convinces himself that it shares his heartbeat.

A necromancer makes the mistake of attempting to finish their hex instead of running from him, and he breaks their neck with barely a twitch, blank-faced. He feels nothing at their gurgling as death claims them, going limp in the one hand it took him to do so. He forgets, sometimes, the actual limits of his strength. It somehow never occurred to him to use magic for this, to call on the storm within himself, the forces of nature he could pluck from thin air with hardly a thought. Gentleness is his nature, yes, but so is restraint, violent only when forced to, when it’s dragged out of him, and so he could never properly gauge his own strength.

His troops seem to like it well enough, happy that their Warchief in his pacifism has not forgotten the glory of battle. They seem to be under the impression that he’s embracing the old ways once more, and he’s not entirely sure how to tell them that he’s not, not really. He doesn’t know enough to try, and doesn’t really want to, whatever was left of the old ways made tainted by the touch of demons and warlocks. He knows of it, yes, knows it in an academic sense, but he doesn’t really _know_ it, having never lived it and learning his own culture years later only when he has escaped in the dead of night at the hands of his human sister. His soldiers don’t know how he escaped, just that he did and that she was involved, somehow, and nothing about her doing the majority of the work required to get him out. He doubts they would think much honor in receiving that much help from a human, not even a warrior at that.

It must be a pleasant surprise to them that he’s doing this at all, really, when typically he plays more defensive roles, at least in a group setting, sticking in the back and altering their environment to control the tide of battle. It was a rare thing indeed for the Warchief to join them on the frontlines, even rarer still to watch him fight. He doesn’t fight like an orc would, or should. He’s showier than most, he knows, and doesn’t regard honor in the same way that other orcs do; it’s how he was trained. Flashier fighting brought bigger audiences, and bigger audiences brought more profit to the arena. Honor didn’t matter much when matters of life or death became a form of entertainment. His soldiers are entertained, and are therefore distracted from his more underhanded tactics, but he doubts they would be too pleased were he to employ those tactics on another orc.

He didn’t really think much of it before, because for what his environment was for the first twenty years of his life, it was perfect, but here, with them, it just feels all the more alienating. Magic, at least, he could pass right by, being that he was the one who had inadvertently resurrected it in the first place. But on the front lines, side by side with his supposed kin, it’s all the more obvious that he is less orc than any of them. Not that he fit in with humans particularly, either.

He’s always been too strong for humans, much too strong, terrified that one wrong move would break Taretha’s wrist, the Foxtons permanently tiptoeing around him as if he could snap at any moment- _him_ , their adopted son. Lying prone when Blackmoore beat him, with his own hands, with his followers’, keeping still so as not to incur further punishment. Weakness branded onto him, ferocity buried within; was this why Blackmoore pushed him down, so that he would forget the strength of his foreign body?

Blade, plunged through Blackmoore’s ribs, blood pooling, “I am so proud,” he says, his last breath. The keep is crumbling around them, Thrall’s fury unchained. _Is this why,_ he thinks, faraway, distantly afraid of his own anger, numb in the face of it. Countless undead fall before him, leaving a trail of gore in his wake. _Is this why?_

He loses track of time. Loses all sense of himself.

_Are you proud of me, now?_

\---

The Witch Queen appears again outside of the citadel, this time in the Plaguelands.

Her first appearance seems to have stirred the remaining scourge out of hiding, whether out of fear or rebellion, but either way, they’re lashing out, and causing damage. They seem to have concocted a new, more virulent strain of plague, something that affects both living and dead alike and is nearly impossible to pull its victims from the brink. It acts too quickly for more traditional means of healing to work without prior prevention first, and seems to completely block out any magical means, worse still, feeding on whatever magic is used to attempt to heal or revive them and instead raising them from death, ready-made ghouls wreaking havoc as soon as they wake. Whoever had developed this did not care to keep intellect intact, instead reaping the short-term benefits of destroying whomever it touches and sowing chaos in its wake.

In response to this, the queen and a squadron of her Witch Knights appear at Light’s Hope Chapel, offering their services. For those that can be saved, the dreadnaught takes from them their sickly blood and instead gives them his own boiling ichor. For whatever reason, no matter how much of the plague he takes into his body, he endures; it cannot take him as it did so many others, and he will not let it take any more without a fight.

For those that cannot be saved, the Witch Queen offers them a means to avenge themselves. For those that are soon to perish and have no other options, she offers them her hand to make them her own.

Now naturally no one is very happy about this, including the queen herself, regretting that it came down to this, but not regretting giving the terminally ill that option. The Ashen Verdict don’t particularly appreciate this, either, instantly on edge when she offers it for the first time to one of their paladins, about to pass over at any moment, but it becomes very abruptly clear that it isn’t any of their business, and that they can do little to stop it, the queen focusing only on the desires of the departed and very little else. That first one doesn’t take it, unwilling to be parted from the Light, even though their departure is too soon and that they would be separated from the light only temporarily.

But the next one, however- they take her up on her offer. They take her outstretched hand. Their separation is only temporary, she asserts. They are bound to her no more than they wish to be, and should they choose to meet their fate, she will not stop them. But first: the matter of avenging their fallen brethren, and themselves.

It’s half and half after that, more or less. Far more than any of them could predicted, anyway. Thrall can only assume that Fordring doesn’t approve of this; he can’t quite listen to the rest of the missive the scout reads to them, all sounds becoming a numb buzzing against his ear. He understands the important parts, at least: stay here and protect Sylvanas from the Scourge and if need be, his fallen companions. Staying here shouldn’t be too bad, in theory. It’s not as if he gets particularly bored or that time is at a standstill. No if anything, it slips away from him faster than he can catch, sun and moon passing each other in a mindless continuum, battles done in a blink.

He thinks- he thinks Sylvanas has started to notice this. She’s busy with her own issues, typically, like attempting to get a hold of her own borders and safety within her own region for example, while Thrall’s duties have momentarily been reduced to just this one, but occasionally she will come and check up on them and her own people, check to see if there’s been any incidents or issues cropping up. As long as Thrall’s been here, not a single ghoul has passed by unchecked, and his soldiers are happy to tell her so, and so are her rangers. She seems impressed by this, at first, and decides to linger in order to witness this for herself, in addition to her actual duties.

He’s not entirely sure how he feels about her witnessing this for the first time, watching him lose himself, drifting out of his own body while it sets to work destroying any enemies that come by with gruesome efficiency. He doesn’t quite feel much of anything, except maybe a vague wish that she hadn’t seen it, or at least hadn’t made the face that she did when she did see it. Her brow furrowed, scrutinizing him, but not maliciously, not meanly. She gritted her teeth, cringing a bit, and her gaze seemed to trail after him long after the skirmish had been completed. He didn’t really want her to see this. Honestly, he didn’t really want anyone to see him like that, but obviously it’s a bit late for that now. At least the soldiers didn’t recognize it for what it was, but Sylvanas, to both of their surprise, seems to have gotten to know him well enough where she knows that something is wrong.

“Warchief,” she starts, choosing her words carefully. “Are you… May I speak to you for a moment?” It’s odd to see her so hesitant, for once. Normally she doesn’t appear to care one way or another whose delicate sensibilities she offends with her acidity, him included.

He nods, distantly anxious, but nods nevertheless, motioning for his guards and soldiers to leave them. Sylvanas does the same. She leads him over to where her tent is set up for the time being, the rangers standing guard outside it flitting away with a look from her, and takes him inside. He has to duck his head through the entryway, but the ceiling, thankfully enough, is tall enough to house him. There’s a lantern inside that lights up upon Sylvanas’ entry, filling the tent with a soft, pale glow. It seems too small a thing, and too soft a light, to be expanding to every corner the way it does, but that does not stop it from doing so. It’s just as well; the sun may be out, but they cannot see it with the thick miasma that blocks out Tirisfal’s sky at all times. The lantern is necessary.

“Warchief,” she starts again. _You may call me Thrall,_ he debates on saying, saying nothing instead. He nods, waiting for her to go on, anxiety attempting to push through the detachment. “Are you,” she continues, reaching out to him, hesitating.

“Are you alright?” she asks finally, retracting her hand. It stays at her side stiffly, fist clenched. She looks- she doesn’t quite regret saying it, but she doesn’t regret _not_ saying it, either. She seems embarrassed that’s she’s doing this at all above everything else, but concern still stubbornly driving her forward. He’s touched, but he’s not quite capable of comprehending anyone giving a shit about him outside of his title, currently. Instead, he dodges the question, which he realizes absolutely does not help his case at all as soon as he does it.

“What do you mean?” he asks, the picture of nonchalance. She squints at him; it must not reach his eyes.

“You seem a bit… off,” she tries to explain. She seems hesitant again. He doesn’t blame her; it’s not easy to try and explain to a friend or colleague that their behavior has changed very radically, very quickly. He knows it has. Really, it’s a more of a surprise that no one else has noticed, if Sylvanas of all people has.

The viscera staining his armor probably helped to confirm this, admittedly.

He doesn’t say anything, looking at her expectantly to go on. She frowns at him and huffs, frustrated.

“Enough of this,” she grumbles under her breath. “Listen. Warchief.”

“You can call me Thrall,” he says quietly in the brief breath between her words.

“Thrall,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I know something is wrong. You can tell me. It’s- it’s alright to talk to me about this.” She stares at him, daring him to challenge her. He does not.

“I don’t really know what’s wrong,” he tells her, just shy of calmly. It’d probably sound calmer if he didn’t sound exhausted, he imagines. “A great many things have changed, recently. It’s… been more difficult than I thought it would be to adjust.” He can’t to go into too much detail; it’s all he can give her, right now. “I’m sorry if I worried you, Sylvanas.” She doesn’t believe him. Not the apology, no; that was sincere enough. No, she was expecting him to tell her more, clumsily giving him her trust and expecting it in return. Sylvanas does not enjoy revealing her vulnerability, and he managed to unearth it without hardly trying. She has his trust, however; she’d had it since she’d been brave enough to cross the sea and under Orgrimmar’s archway to approach him to begin with.

“Well, I’m here if you need me,” she huffs at him. “I know a thing or two about _adjusting to change_.” The last few words sound as though saying them leaves a vile taste in her mouth. A beat or so passes.

“Sylvanas,” he says, gently.

“What?” she drawls.

“Thank you.”

She sighs, irritated, but it seems to have relieved the tension a bit, breathing out and in, collecting herself. He opens the tent’s entryway, and waits for her to pass through before passing through himself. The lantern goes out upon her leaving, and the tent is dark once more when they close the flap.

\---

That night, Thrall dreams.

It’s the first one he’s had in months, and unlike most of the ones he’d been having, before. For one, he’s still in Tirisfal, which isn’t a place he frequently occupies in his dream. Secondly, Tirisfal’s veil of clouds seems to have lifted, the night sky clear and deep, moon and stars bright. The air is crisp and fresh with frost, but spring is on the breeze. He’s not at his encampment, anymore, but he can see it a little ways off, firelight in the distance as the night watch do their rounds. Color outlines his soldiers and Sylvanas’, bright and saturated, leaving transient echoes of themselves as they pass by. They cannot see him, he thinks, nor can they see the color.

He dreams himself a wolf. He lopes through the trees and fields, the first crop of fresh grass beginning to poke leaves out of the sleeping earth. He dreams the trees yet live, he dreams the water untainted, uncorrupted. He wanders, and finds himself outside of Sylvanas’ tent once more. Sylvanas is not there, but her rangers are, and they do not see him. There’s a faint trace of her leading from the tent to elsewhere, faint echoes of her movements marked in apple red, scented with mint and roses. He remembers something vaguely, something about her living self, the perfume she favored, things left behind when Frostmourne drove through her. Things that could not be reclaimed, at least not at the time.

He scents the trail. Follows it. He remembers, not this one that had just passed, too busy with the Citadel and recovery, but the Hallow’s End of the year before, coming to celebrate this with her and celebrate reclaiming the Undercity from Varimathras and Putress. It’d been barely a month, perhaps, since then, but the Forsaken seemed to have bounced back some. Hallow’s End helped, he thinks. Something to look forward to, something to plan for the future rather than wallow in despair.

They’re standing outside the city gates, waiting for them to light the wickerman. His guards and her guards and both of their ambassadors are there. Undercity’s ambassador for Orgrimmar, Margaret Appleton, is popping little skull-shaped mints into her mouth, and sharing them among the others. The undead adore them, it seems, but only a few of his guard can say the same. One of them, in fact, spits it out almost as soon as she’s put it in her mouth, eyes watering. But Appleton isn’t offended, chuckling a little at her expense.

“I’m sorry, those ones are a bit strong,” she laughs. She fishes into the pocket of her costume- a pirate, apparently- and pulls out ones shaped like pumpkins instead, resting in the palm of her glove. “Here, these are a lot sweeter.” The guard eyes her suspiciously, but takes one tentatively. When it doesn’t immediately burn her tongue, like the last one did, she says, “thank you,” quietly.

“They make them stronger every year,” she laughs. One of his councilors- Makhan, who shows his cheer with a festive pin rather than a costume- has been downing them as fast as Appleton with little issue.

“Good,” he says, ruthlessly popping several into his mouth at once. Appleton laughs and claps for him, and the guard looks at him as though he’d grown a second head. Makhan after a moment reaches into his satchel and pulls out a few bars of chocolate, wrapped in gaudy, decorative paper. It looks goblin-made; the wrappings are covered in illustrations of hotrod flames and crossbones.

“Here,” he says, offering one to her.

“Oh, that’s sweet of you,” she starts, apologetic. “But I can’t really enjoy chocolate anymore. Can’t taste it like I used to.”

“There’s hot peppers in them,” he explains, and her expression brightens instantly.

“You are a _darling, thank you,”_ she says giddily, and the other undead stare at her enviously as she unwraps one and takes a bite. She gives a little groan of appreciation and one of Sylvanas’ rangers- Anya, he thinks her name is- looks like she’s debating on committing cold blooded murder in the front of the Dark Lady and everyone for one of those chocolate bars.

“I brought enough for everyone,” Makhan says, reaching into his bag again. Sylvanas’ guards swarm him almost immediately. Sylvanas doesn’t laugh, Thrall doesn’t think she can right now, but she does crack a weak smirk at this. Without her guards surrounding her, he can make out the scent of something sweet and flowery, very faintly. It probably comes from the crown of dark roses sitting upon her head, hood down for once. She’s kept her cloak but it seems that someone, possibly several someones, talked her into wearing a dark gown as opposed to her usual armor. There is a large amount of intricate, detailed patterns lovingly sewn around the hem, and most of the Forsaken he’s seen can’t help but to stop and look when they pass by.

“What is that?” he asks casually. “It smells nice.” Sylvanas blinks owlishly at him, surprised.

“Oh, it’s, it’s Eversong roses,” she explains quietly. “There’s not very much of them left, what with the Dead Scar and the Ghostlands, but Lor’themar and Nathanos managed to track some down for me, enough to put together this.” Thrall nods along, listening intently.

“It’s my… it was my favorite, before,” she continues, almost mumbling now. Her brow furrows, upset. “They shouldn’t have. It was stupid to waste resources on this instead of putting them towards something useful.”

“I’m sure they only meant the best,” he says gently. He pauses, then decides to take a chance and says, “They were trying to make you happy. That’s not a waste.” Sylvanas huffs at him, grumpy. A few feet away, there’s a sudden burst of sound as one of Thrall’s guards tries the hot pepper chocolate and yelps out in pain, laughter and loud swearing following soon after. Sylvanas’ expression softens.

“I’m sure they were doing what they thought was best,” she allows grudgingly. He doesn’t quite remember what happens after that; the peace, mostly, bonfire ablaze and the smell of the wood and wicker burning. He and Sylvanas standing near each other quietly, just taking solace in the other’s company. The night becomes unclear, blurry, and he drifts back into his own, following the scent of roses.

It doesn’t lead too far from the tent; over a hill or two, tucked into the trees, but therein lay Sylvanas, stargazing with Lana’thel, hand in hand. He dreams them restored, silken hair like spun gold and bronze, flesh tan and rosy, eyes blue once more. Gone is the deformed flesh, Sylvanas’ scars and Lana’thel’s wings, and gone are the tattered clothes they died in. Red and amber radiate from them, a beacon, and Thrall ambles closer, making his presence known. Sylvanas spotted him before he spotted them, he thinks. Her eyes already rested on where he rose over the hill by the time he climbed atop it, and Lana’thel whispers something into her ear.

He closes the distance between them, sitting down in front of them, and Sylvanas looks him up and down.

“Warchief?” she asks, testing. He sniffs her outreached hand and give it a furtive lick. Sylvanas does not appreciate this but Lana’thel is plenty amused, chuckling as she cards her fingers through the ruff of fur around his neck. “What are you doing here?” she continues, a little annoyed. He can’t really shrug, but he thinks he gets the point across. She sighs and joins Lana’thel, rubbing either side of his neck roughly. It doesn’t hurt. Still, he thinks this may be more to Sylvanas’ benefit than his. He shuffles a little closer, allowing her full access to the thick coat of fur covering his body, which she takes full advantage of. She seems starved for this kind of tactility, any kind, really, just the act of touching another living creature without them flinching away. She frowns. He wishes he could do more for her.

“Stop that, you’re going to make her think you’re teasing her,” Lana’thel laughs. Sylvanas scoffs at her, irritated.

“You’ve done quite enough,” she says, scolds really. She does not stop petting him. And then:

Light begins to trickle over what little horizon they can see, but it is not the dawn. The sky too is dark, the light is too devoid of color. But it seems familiar, somehow, rather than alien.

“You’d better go see what they want,” Lana’thel says. Sylvanas grudgingly releases him from her hold, and nods at him.

“Good luck,” she tells him seriously. He leaves.

He trots over the hill, through the trees, towards where the light bled through. He cannot find its source, and the distance seems greater with each passing moment but it grows brighter, so he must be getting closer, somehow.

He crosses back through his encampment and through the bulwark, none of the guard disturbed by his passing, and builds from a trot to a run once he reaches the Plaguelands proper, the light growing brighter but still no source from which it stems. No creature sees him, hears him, he makes no sound at all, bounding over the loose stone path without overturning a single pebble. It isn’t until he reaches Andorhal, time having lost all meaning, that he sees them, and stops dead in his tracks.

It seems like it should be too bright to see them, but still he does, two figures standing outside the ruined gates. Details become clearer as he comes closer, the sheen of his armor, the runes on her coat, white and gold surrounding them like a veil. They turn, and see him.

They are not restored, exactly, forms cycling through their living and dead stages at will. Their armor remains the black and purple of the witch’s banner all throughout, but her hair is white then gold, his eyes are red then gold; he does not care which. He sees them, and they see him. This is all he wants.

“Thrall?” Jaina calls. She’s quiet, unsure, but he could have heard her from anywhere, probably. He staggers towards them. His name on her tongue is still the sweetest thing he’s ever heard, even now, even in dreams, even in death, and he will always hear her when she calls. Garrosh says nothing but he can feel his searing gaze on him as he draws nearer, jealous, ravenous, demanding of him without having to say a word. Thrall will give of himself all that he wants, all that he asks, he will give and give because he knows that Garrosh will take and keep and guard him as his own.

He stops just short of them, unable to tell if he yet lingers in his dream, unable to care. Jaina bends down, hands reaching out.

“Is it really you?” she asks, wistful and lonely. Thrall, in his dream-form, a great black wolf tall enough to very nearly look her in the eye even without her kneeling down to see him, says nothing. He basks in the light they exude, starving for any scrap of them he can get. Jaina’s hands close the distance.

Thrall wakes. He still feels her hands on his neck, fingers woven in fur no longer there. He curses himself a fool. Sleep evades him the rest of the night, tossing and turning, the light radiating off of them haunting him. Exhaustion finally claims him, just before dawn.

He still feels her hands on his neck.

\---

Tirisfal is as grey and murky as it’s ever been, come morning.

Thrall tries to forget the dream, but he cannot seem to push it from his mind, the images hanging onto the edges of it and clinging no matter what he does. He’s too tired to fight it for too long, so he just goes about his day with it simmering quietly in the back of his head. There aren’t many stragglers today, thankfully, but he’d been particularly vicious the past few days so it’s not entirely surprising. They’ve probably pulled back, at least for now. The dead aren’t a limitless resource if you can’t recover the ones that have fallen again in battle, and while rebellious they may be, the remaining scourge aren’t completely stupid. They’re not going to waste their numbers on this when they know for a fact that the Warchief and his kin are guarding the bulwark, and he will not let harm befall any of their Horde, the Dark Lady included.

Sylvanas continues to behave strangely around him- well, more strangely. She’ll work alongside him just fine, but she can’t quite look him in the eye now, for some reason. In his mind’s eye, he sees her silken hair, woven from light and gold, and he wonders if she does, too. Meanwhile, Lana’thel, who barely gave him the time of day, before, greets him with friendly amusement that he suspects is at Sylvanas’ expense. He fears his dream may have been a vision, rather than a dream, and doesn’t quite know what to do with the knowledge that his dream-self was ready and willing to surrender himself into Jaina and Garrosh’s hands, damn the consequences. This isn’t exactly new information; true, he didn’t have it consciously, prior to this dream, but he thinks it may have just moved from his unconscious into the forefront of his mind, and he doesn’t really want to think about how he’s still willing, even now.

The day remains quiet until mid-afternoon, when one of the Witch Queen’s scouts comes trotting up the path in plain view of everyone there. It’s very deliberate; she probably took into account that her appearing wherever she wants and doing whatever she wants was alarming to everyone involved, finally, and is electing to try and appear less intimidating. He can’t tell for certain if it’s working, her ascension still too new and foreign in everyone’s minds to not put them on edge at any mention of her.

The scout, the same one that announced her taking the crown to them back in the citadel, tells them that the queen and her entourage are heading this way, and not to be alarmed, more or less. Sylvanas, obviously, is alarmed, looking cornered and cagey until she arrives some hours later, right as the sun is beginning to sink into the horizon. Thrall knows that she very likely means no harm, but that isn’t going to stop him or his soldiers or Sylvanas’ from watching the path warily for her arrival, wondering if their encounter will be hostile anyway. As is turns out, Jaina is merely interested in collaboration on the Dark Lady’s part, hoping perhaps to organize some sort of incursion into Shadowfang Keep, where she suspects that some scourge holdouts lay within. It’s a far cry from their first encounter since her taking the crown, manifesting on the shore of Lordamere Lake and wreaking havoc on the deserving wicked.

Sylvanas mostly handles it well but her suspicion is very clear, however justified it may be. Thrall stands at the ready while the two of them cobble something together, trying to ignore how Jaina won’t look at him, how Garrosh isn’t present. Sylvanas very firmly keeps him a respectable distance from her, and he notices the high amount of dark rangers stalking the area, eyes and weapons trained on the Witch Queen should she try anything untoward him.

_I can be put back together,_ his mind supplies, remembering frost spreading fast under his grip on Jaina’s arms, back in the citadel. _You can’t._

He can’t hear what they’re saying, but judging from Jaina’s guilty expressions and Sylvanas’ only marginally softening ones, Jaina is probably attempting to make it up to her for the harm she may have caused, even accidentally, and Sylvanas is probably grudgingly allowing her to. They talk for some time, long enough that Garrosh finally arrives, by himself and covered in gore. He reports in his usual fashion, which is to say, gruffly and impatiently, that he had finished his duty clearing out a significant chunk of the undead lurking in Andorhal, and that they should leave well enough alone for now. This would explain the unusual lack of scourge that day. Jaina thanks him, relaxing visibly now that her knight has returned to her side, and Garrosh doing the same, rage abated and the closest to tranquil he’s capable of being.

Envious longing and hurt pierce through him, and he finds he can no longer stand being around them. He takes his leave as soon as he is able, electing instead to go back to the Bulwark and keep watch, knowing fully well nothing will come their way. It’s probably for the best; he can’t concentrate on anything for long, and his foul mood must be obvious with how the soldiers give him a wide berth. It isn’t until night has started proper that anyone has the courage to disturb him while he’s like this. It’s Garrosh, of course, one of the few people that could ever do so. He pushes through the soldiers to reach Thrall’s side, uncaring of their petty fears or concerns of him, and unsympathetic to Thrall’s sulking. No, Garrosh stomps right up to him, and Thrall doesn’t even bother turning his head to look at him, digging in his heels.

“Come with me,” Garrosh tells him, just barely not an order. “We want to talk with you.”

“What is it?” Thrall asks, guarded, anxiety spiking despite himself. Garrosh does his best not to roll his eyes, and his anxiety spikes further, anger and hurt mingling. Garrosh goes to say something, then stops, growling, collecting himself.

_“Please,”_ he grits out. Thrall looks at him for a moment before the anxiety becomes too much, and he nods, getting up to leave with him. Garrosh apparently decides he’s taking too long, and takes his hand, just shy of dragging him away. His hand is warm, and Thrall’s pulse thumps rapid-fire in his grip, no longer able to tell what exactly is causing it.

He leads Thrall down the path, away from the Bulwark, and into the deadened forest, brown, withered trees all around. Thrall fears not for his safety; he knows for a fact that a number of rangers tailed him when he went back, and circled them as they trudged through the forest. He’s sure that Garrosh knows, too, and isn’t happy about it. He’s insulted, most likely, and while Thrall knows that Garrosh won’t do him any harm, deliberately at least, the rangers don’t know that and Sylvanas doesn’t know that. So they’re just going to have to deal with them lingering just beyond their line of sight.

_“Why have you been ignoring us?”_ Garrosh snaps finally after the longest silence Thrall has ever experienced. He comes to a dead stop and Thrall nearly runs into him. He crushes his hand around Thrall’s, and he realizes that Garrosh is trembling. He thought it’d been himself this entire time.

“What?” Thrall asks, squinting at him. He’s not sure how he’s capable of speaking right now, throat restricted and breathing slightly difficult. Garrosh lets out a frustrated growl and whirls around to look at him, inches away from his face. He’s furious, as per usual, but there’s something starving, there, too, and Thrall’s already-frantic heart skips a beat.

“You’re just-” he starts, hand moving up Thrall’s arm. “Why are you ignoring us?” His other hand finds his waist, arm winding around him like he’s afraid he’s going to bolt. “Why won’t you answer our calling?”

“What are you talking about?” he asks, confusion derailing his anxiety, guiltily basking in the heat Garrosh exudes. He snarls, and his other arm joins the one around his waist, pulling him in so that there is no distance between them any longer.

“We’ve been trying to contact you for _months,”_ he hisses at him. “And you’ve blocked us off.” He burrows into the nape of his neck, shaking. “Why? Why are you ignoring us?”

“Garrosh, what-” Thrall starts, startlingly aware of his mouth so close to his neck. He stops. The dreams, he realizes, the dreams, they’ve- They’ve been trying-

“I didn’t know,” he explains hastily. “I thought-” Garrosh snarls again, mouthing his tendon, pulse leaping out to meet him.

_“How did you not-”_ He growls. “Idiot, you are such an _idiot,”_ he manages to grit out, and he can no longer keep himself from raking his teeth over Thrall’s neck, a living heartbeat his for the taking. Thrall is no better, unable to stop him, unwilling to, all he wants is to give and be taken. He wraps his arms around Garrosh’s shoulders, squeezing tight, and Garrosh shudders in his embrace, growling turning to a whine for a brief moment.

“I thought you had moved on without me,” Thrall admits quietly. “I thought you didn’t need me anymore.” Garrosh manages to tear himself away from the shelter he’s made of Thrall’s body long enough to get back in his face, knocking his head against his.

“How could you ever think that?” he accuses, still furious, and it is Thrall’s turn for anger to rise in his stomach, defiant.

“What the hell was I supposed to think, when I reached the throne and saw you two?” he snaps, defensive. His grip becomes too harsh, too rough, but he refuses to let go. “You left me behind, with no way of following. What was I supposed to do?” Garrosh goes to say something, more arguing, probably, it’s all he ever does, still keeping Thrall pinned to him like he’s not allowed to leave, but he stops, mouth snapping shut, glancing behind Thrall for a moment before looking away moodily. They’re not alone, he realizes.

Thrall turns, barely able to with how Garrosh clings to him, and sees Jaina standing there, quiet and sad. Irrationally, he tries to shove Garrosh off of him, guilt and panic ripping through him, but Garrosh does not relent, only sinking his claws in deeper.

_“No,”_ Garrosh barks. “You’re not getting away from us again.” Jaina steps closer and Thrall stops struggling, letting himself be pulled in by the other orc. They all know he’s not going anywhere, but his covetousness is appreciated, all the same.

“You were supposed to wait for me,” Jaina says, and for a moment Thrall thinks it’s directed at him, guilt spiking again, but it’s Garrosh who huffs and looks away, relinquishing his grasp on Thrall.

“Sorry,” Garrosh says, not sorry at all. She sighs, but has already gotten over it. She and Thrall look at each other, silent, and Thrall finds that he has resumed being unable to speak, throat closing up on him. This continues for some time, though for how long he’s not sure, the sense of it lost to him but every second agony, until finally he breaks down.

“Jaina,” he says, voice raspy as he forces it out of his throat. She cringes, unable to keep eye contact with him, but she forces herself to, forces herself to work through this, somehow.

“Thrall, I,” she tries. Pauses, and Thrall wonders if her eyes can still water, his own on the verge of it. He hates this. “I’m sorry,” she tells him. “I didn’t intend for it to go like this, I just- there was no time to explain what I had to do, and by the time that I could, I thought you were angry with me. I thought if I tried to explain then, I would’ve only made things worse.” He still can’t reply, though he’s not sure if he should; if he did, she might stop, and it was already difficult enough getting to this point.

_“Everyone is so afraid of me,”_ she laments, remorseful. “I thought maybe if I left everyone alone, things would calm down, but it’s only made it _worse,_ and I can’t even blame anyone for it. I’d be afraid of me, too. The last time I saw you I just _hurt_ you, I couldn’t even control my own power yet.”

“Jaina, why?” he manages to ask, mouth moving of its own accord. “Why did you take the crown?”

“I couldn’t just _leave them,”_ she replies. “They needed me. They relied on me for so much, I couldn’t just abandon them like their own prince had.”

“We needed you, too,” he says, it bursting out of him. Garrosh growls at him, a warning.

“No, you _didn’t,”_ she argues. “There’s no place for me back amongst the living. Do you think I _wanted_ this? I didn’t want this, no one wants this,” She’s not angry, not really, more upset and hurt than anything else. “No one wants this, this curse that’s been placed upon us, and no one would have helped them- could have helped them, except for me, and the least I could do after everything that’s happened was try and fix things.” She pauses, profoundly miserable.

“The only place I have is at the citadel. Everyone moved on without me,” she tells him. “As well they should have.” After a moment, Thrall tells her, quietly:

“There is always a place for you here.” She looks at him disbelievingly. Then: “By my side. If you would have it.” Shock ripples across her expression.

“Thrall, you,” she starts. “You don’t know what you’re saying. This isn’t what you want.”

“Yes, it is,” he tells her firmly. He says, before the courage to say it leaves him, “I have wanted this- I’ve wanted you. For years.” Jaina doesn’t say anything to this, eyes wide, and fear begins to build.

“I tried to tell you,” he continues. “Before all of this. At the tournament. I wanted to stop you, I was being selfish, I thought maybe if I’d told you then I could’ve stopped you from going, I could have stopped all of this.” Irritation begins to mingle among the shock and disbelief on her face, but she gets no chance to respond.

“No, you couldn’t have,” Garrosh snaps, finally reaching his limit. “Don’t be an idiot. Stop blaming yourself for things that aren’t your fault.” Jaina looks vindicated very briefly, but Garrosh goes, “You don’t get to blame yourself, either. Stop putting so much on yourself, both of you. Neither of you could have controlled this, stop being so arrogant that you think you could.”

“You two have been dancing around this for as long as I’ve known both of you, just fucking spit it out already,” he tells them. He glares, but can’t hold their gazes for long, looking off to the side. Thrall and Jaina, both, realize something upon seeing this.

“Garrosh,” Thrall says. “Do you think you’re going to be left behind?”

_“You_ did,” he points out. _“She_ did.” He can’t argue that.

“I literally bound our souls together, Garrosh,” Jaina prompts crossly. “What did you think was going to happen? That I’d unbind us and bind him to me instead?”

“No,” he snarls, but she still hit close to the mark.

“Do you think I just did that out of pity?” Jaina prompts again, a direct shot. “After all this time, you still think I did that out of pity?”

“You have been _mourning_ him since you took the crown,” he says. “I wasn’t going to be the one to stand in the way of that.” Jaina snarls this time, furious, eyes flaring to life with a blue glare.

“If I hadn’t wanted that I would have unbound us the _instant_ I could,” she hisses at him. “I would never abandon you, and I would never be so cruel as to just _string you along_ like that. I _want_ this- I want you at my side, always.”

“Then say so,” he argues. “Tell me. Tell him.” Jaina snarls again. Spins to face Thrall. Garrosh draws her out of herself like a viper out of its den, and she’s beautiful like this, he thinks enviously.

“Thrall, I,” she starts, frustrated. Has to force herself to continue. “I’ve loved you, for- for I don’t know for how long, you’re the closest friend I’ve ever had and I would gladly be with you, if you’d have me.” Thrall knew what she was going to say before she finished, but it’s still a surprise, somehow, surprised affection bubbling up in him, heart racing. She looks at him, afraid but defiant, bracing herself.

“Well?” she demands, still wound up.

“Yes,” Thrall replies softly. “Always. I… I love you, too.”

“And in case it wasn’t _obvious_ ,” she continues, turning to spit venom at Garrosh. “I love you, too, you fucking asshole.”

“Good,” Garrosh says, attempting to appear unmoved, but his face has gone soft with affection as well, despite his grumbling.

He and Thrall regard each other. A moment passes.

“How long?” Thrall asks gently.

“Since you took me through the Dark Portal for the first time,” Garrosh replies, visibly hating that he does so. “And showed me what our people could be. You showed me what I could be.” Then, more quietly, “I want to be the person you think I could be.”

Garrosh waits a moment before asking in return, “And you?” Thrall thinks about it.

“Since the summit, I think,” Thrall admits, glancing away. “At Theramore, when you were ready to fly across the table and fight Varian Wrynn with nothing but your bare hands because you thought he threatened me. I didn’t think myself so important to you, until then.” He hesitates.

“…I think I always did. I just didn’t know it.” When he raises his eyes again, merely to gauge his reaction, he finds that Garrosh is inches away from his face again. He grabs Jaina’s arm and pulls her over, making sure she knows she’s included.

“Bind all of us,” he demands. Thrall, whose heart had been racing since the beginning of this encounter, feels his pulse spike again. Jaina’s eyes widen, and he thinks she would have flushed bright red at this point had she still been alive. Garrosh’s eyes flick between the two of them, scared that they’ll escape even as he crushes them to his chest.

“Garrosh, I don’t,” Jaina starts, after a moment. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.” The words pull from her reluctantly, attempting to do the right thing even though it hurts all three of them.

“I don’t know what will happen,” she continues, trying to explain herself. “I don’t want to hurt you, Thrall.” She glances at him briefly, nervous.

“I barely knew what I was doing the first time, with Garrosh. I don’t want to drag you down with us,” she admits, remorseful. Garrosh will not relent, gaze focused on her. Nowadays his emotions are usually expressed in shades of hunger, and this is no less true, now, but it only seems to be the undercurrent, rather than the main component. He continues to say nothing, merely staring at her, and on anyone else Thrall would’ve described it as pleading.

“I know you won’t hurt me,” he says, finally. “I want this.” She focuses on him fully, now, disbelief on her face and visibly warring with a fervent hope.

“Thrall,” she says quietly, and there is no sound more beautiful than his name on her tongue, this he knows for certain, plucking at the chords of his heart like a harp.

Garrosh touches his forehead to his, taking care to be gentle with him, and it’s somehow so unexpected that it stuns him where he stands, this intimacy foreign and familiar at once. He pulls back and does the same for Jaina, who leans into it with barely a thought.

“Jaina,” Garrosh says, finally, voice hoarse. “Please.”

Jaina attempts to reply several times, opening and closing her mouth, until finally she is able to reply with, “Alright.”

“Only if this is what you want, Thrall,” she asserts as Garrosh pulls away from her.

“Yes,” he tells them. “This is what I want.” Jaina gulps, nodding.

She reaches out to him with both hands, gently cupping either side of his jaw. They’re not nearly as cold as they were the last time she had touched him, merely chilled instead of cold enough to burn. She draws him in close, close enough that some small, vain part of himself is expecting a kiss. Hoping for one. Jaina breathes deeply, calmingly, and her breath is cool on his face.

“Close your eyes,” she tells him, closing her own. In the briefest half-second before they close completely, he can see a sliver of bright light emerging. He closes his eyes.

It’s dark, at first. It’s not the sort of dark one normally experiences with eyes closed; it feels like a dream. He can’t see anything, and can’t feel anything besides Jaina’s hands on his jaw, Garrosh’s arms around them both. It feels stable. He feels safe.

Then, he’s not sure when exactly, color starts to form in the dark, a dim glow at first slowly growing brighter and brighter. A strand of white and a strand of gold hang there, tied together, and something moves and shapes them in the dark. They are gently untied and held in one shadowy hand, and the other reaches out towards him, and comes away grasping a strand of earthy brown. He can feel it, like a hand around his heart, and he knows instantly that it’s Jaina, somehow, even as her hands rest on his jaw even now. Her shadow-hands braid them together, weaving them around each other, and he catches the briefest glimpses of their individual consciousness, growing stronger as she weaves.

Garrosh doesn’t arrive first so much as arrive the loudest, his soul as bright and searing as the sun itself, and Thrall is momentarily overwhelmed by his presence, bombarded with thought and raw emotion as Jaina winds them closer together. Hers is there, too, of course, but much subtler, as cool and quiet as a creeping chill, slinking up the back of his neck and leaving his hair standing on end. He sees himself in their eyes, then- he sees himself at Hyjal, he sees himself in Garadar, he sees himself in the frozen fortress, a riot of color standing out starkly from the dim, dark saronite. He sees and hears his own living heart thundering in his chest, a beacon of heat and precious enough to covet, to devour if only so that no one else may take it. He sees the coil of his own soul, earthy, soft but sturdy, radiating life and warmth, and this, too, inspires longing, the desire to take and keep so strong that is it barely restrained.

_Is this how the undead feel affection,_ he wonders, and is still surprised, somehow, when the reply is a resounding _Yes,_ that there’s any reply at all echoing through his mind.

Jaina finishes the binding, completing the braid with a knot at the end to keep them tied together, and takes another calming breath.

“It’s done,” she says. “You can open your eyes, now.” He does.

It takes a few moments for his sight to reform, eyes closed so long that they became unadjusted to the outside light again, but he sees the two of them before him, soon enough. Garrosh, at some point, had tucked his head into the nape of Thrall’s neck and just stayed there, resting more weight on him than he’d probably intended and breathing in deeply, and Jaina merely watches him warily, attempting to gauge his reaction.

Thrall draws her in, cupping the back of her head in his palm, and gives her a kiss on the forehead as gently as he can manage. He gives Garrosh one as well, turning his head and kissing him just above his ear. Jaina lets out a shaky sigh, falling into him with a relief he can actually feel pouring into him, and Garrosh’s response is to burrow in deeper, clutch them to him closer. Then, after a moment, Thrall hears a call over the trees.

“Are you done?” someone asks. It’s one of the dark rangers; he thinks it’s Anya. “Not to be crass, but if you don’t head back soon, you’re going to give Lady Windrunner a fucking aneurism.” Garrosh snarls loudly in her general direction, leaving the safety of Thrall’s long hair to do so, and she doesn’t say anything back but there’s a general air of being unimpressed in return. Jaina hisses something particularly off-color under her breath, and once again he’s sure that were she still alive, she’d be bright red by now.

“We’ll head back soon,” Thrall calls back, attempting to be responsible even as embarrassment burns his cheeks. She doesn’t call again, but he knows she heard him.

They spend another few minutes there, just standing together, but Thrall knows that it’s time to return.

“We need to go,” he says gently.

“I know,” Jaina replies a little resentfully, and Garrosh just grumbles at him. The feeling is mutual. They start to break apart from each other, and Jaina asks, still wary, still anxious:

“Are we… alright, though?” Her words are unsure, but she says them anyway, forcing herself through it. She and Garrosh both look at him, and their combined unease begins to bleed into him.

Thrall nods at both of them.

“Yes,” he says definitively. “We’re alright.” And they walk back to the Bulwark, hand in hand.


End file.
